


Eleven Cents

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-03
Updated: 2008-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam owes him eleven cents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleven Cents

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Inspired by certain events in the Homicide episode "Happy to Be Here."

Dean is at the pool table, trying to replenish their diminishing cash supply, when he gets the first hint that something's wrong--well, something outside the typical Winchester I sold my soul and I'm going to hell in a couple of weeks kind of wrong. He glances over at Sam, who is hunched over the bar doing shots. It'd be one thing if there was a hot chick involved, and maybe some salt-licking or lemon-sucking, but it's just Sam, a bottle of Wild Turkey and an ever-expanding row of shot glasses.

Dean gives up on the leisurely evening of hustling he was planning and runs the table, pocketing the cash with a quick, apologetic smile before heading back to the bar.

"Come on, Barney," he says, nudging Sam with his shoulder, hard enough to get his attention but gently enough not to knock him off his stool if he's that far gone. Sam mumbles something and stares at Dean with wide, unfocused eyes, face set in that mopey look that always makes Dean's heart hurt, but he doesn't tip over. "Let's get you back to the motel."

Sam goes without protesting, which should have been the second hint, but Dean is just glad he doesn't have to carry him to the car or into the room, so it doesn't really register.

He dumps Sam into bed, makes him drink two glasses of water and take some Advil. Sam is mumbling into his pillow when Dean heads back out to the bar. He's left money in safe deposit boxes all over the country, and written out instructions on where they are and how to access them, so Sam won't be completely fucked when (if, he tells himself, though he knows hope is as dangerous as despair, has mostly given up on it by now) he dies, but he'd like to add a little more to their current stash.

He makes about four hundred bucks in the next couple of hours, and heads back to the motel room, humming "Baby, I Love Your Way" under his breath and cursing the jukebox for getting it stuck in his head. He closes the door and moves quietly into the room, trying not to wake Sam.

Whose bed is empty.

Dean stares at the rumpled bed for a long moment, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing, and then turns to the bathroom, which appears dark and empty, but could possibly be hiding a drunk and puking Sam in its shallow depths.

He flicks the light on, but Sam's not worshiping at the porcelain altar, or huddled in the shower. The tiny window is painted shut, so he didn't go out that way.

Nothing but the bed is disturbed, and Sam's sneakers are missing, though his jacket is still draped over the chair where Dean left it earlier, cell phone in the left-hand pocket.

"Fuck."

He forces himself to breathe, to push down the sick feeling of fear making his stomach clench, and concentrate on finding Sam.

He couldn't have gone far, drunk and on foot, and Dean circles the motel quickly, flashlight and gun in hand. The night clerk is snoring away behind the desk, six-month-old copy of _Maxim_ lying on the counter and the muted television flickering in the corner of the office.

Dean wakes him up, but he's completely useless, says he's been asleep since the eleven pm rerun of _Family Guy._

"There's a quickie mart at the gas station a little ways down the road," the guy says. "Definitely walkable."

"Thanks."

Dean gets into the car, still counting breaths silently to keep from hyperventilating, hands tight on the steering wheel. He just hopes Sam didn't try to steal a car in his condition. He shakes his head. Can't think about that.

It only takes him about five minutes to get to the gas station, and he can see Sam through the glass doors, yelling and pointing his gun at the clerk, who has a phone in one hand and appears to be yelling right back at Sam.

Dean yanks open the door and bellows, "Sam, what the fuck are you doing?"

"See," Sam says to the clerk, "I told you he'd come if you called him."

"I didn't call him," the clerk answers. He's got an awful lot of attitude for someone staring down the barrel of a gun, even if Dean knows Sam's not going to pull the trigger.

"Sam, I asked you a question." Dean tries to put as much of Dad's tone into his voice as he can, and it must work, because Sam's shoulders straighten and his nostrils flare.

"I was just buying some snacks, but I didn't have enough money, and this guy--" Sam waves his gun at the clerk in a way that makes both Dean and the clerk a little nervous "--didn't believe I was good for it. So I'm holding the place up."

"Yeah, you're a real Dillinger, Sammy." If Sam's drunken stupidity somehow gets them back on the FBI's radar, Dean's going to kill him. He turns to the clerk, pulls out the badge in his jacket pocket, and flashes it at the guy. "Give my partner here a break, okay?" he says, giving the guy his best charming smile. "He's had a rough day--his wife left him for another woman, and his dog got run over by the garbage truck. A man needs--" he looks at the snacks Sam's got on the counter and smirks "--Oreos and beer after a day like that."

"And gum. Don't forget the gum, Dean. It's spearmint. I know that's your favorite." He gives Dean a sad smile. "Minty."

"That's right, Sammy. Thanks for that." Dean forces the words past the tightness in his throat, then turns to the clerk. "How much does Quick Draw here owe you?"

"He was short eleven cents."

Dean considers pulling out his gun and shooting the asshole himself, but he doesn't. Someone's got to be the sane one, and since Sam's obviously gone off the deep end, and the clerk is a total jackass, that only leaves him. So he reaches into his pocket yet again and produces a dime and a penny.

"That take care of things?" he asks, slapping the change down onto the counter.

The clerk looks like he wants to argue, so Dean gives him the are you fucking kidding me? look, and the guy sighs and says, "Yeah."

"Then bag it up and I'll get Sammy here out of your hair." He turns the same look on Sam. "You can put your gun away now, slugger."

"Okay." Sam tucks the nine millimeter back into his waistband. In his faded Stanford t-shirt and holey jeans, the patented Sam Winchester kicked puppy look on his face, he looks about sixteen.

Dean grabs the plastic bag with the beer and the cookies and hands it to him. "Dude, you think you can handle that?" Sam takes it without comment, lets the plastic handles spin tight around his fingers.

They're in the car, and Dean is still having a little trouble with his breathing, but a lot less now that Sam is sitting next to him, safe and, well, drunk and possibly crazy, but physically sound.

"Sam, seriously, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I woke up and I was hungry, but there wasn't any food." He gives Dean an accusing look. "Your M&amp;Ms were gone, and there was only jerky. I hate jerky. Tastes like leather."

"That's 'cause it is leather," Dean mutters, but the old joke is no comfort at the moment.

Sam roots around in the bag and pulls out the pack of gum. It looks tiny in his huge hand. He offers it to Dean, and Dean thinks of him at five, at eight, at twenty-four, handing over gifts with that same earnest look in his eyes.

Dean huffs a disbelieving laugh. "You know, if you'd put the gum back, you'd have had enough money and avoided this whole drama."

"But I got it for you," he says, still holding it out.

Dean sighs and takes it, tucking it into his pocket. "Thanks." He pulls into the spot in front of their room and cuts the engine. "You wanna tell me what this is all about?" It's not like he doesn't know, but he has to ask.

"I can't--I can't find a way to save you," Sam says, and his face is creased and crumpled like a map to a place that no longer exists. "And I can't do it without you."

Dean swallows hard. "Yeah, you can."

Sam shakes his head. "I know you think I can, but I can't." He grabs Dean's wrist, his fingers against Dean's skin cool and damp with condensation from the beer. "I don't want to."

Dean feels his heart stutter and stop and start again. He reaches out, brushes Sam's hair off his forehead the way he used to when they were little. "Then you won't have to," he says softly. "You owe me eleven cents. I'm not going anywhere until you pay me back."

Sam's laugh is edged with drunk hysteria, but the frown is gone from his face, and that's all Dean really cares about.

Dean closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. He knows there has to be a way to fix this mess they're in, and together, he and Sam will find it.

end

~*~


End file.
